He broke three wolves’ teeth meant to guard him from a werewolf’s bite.
Rosmerta abandoned Tobias first.
He took a few steps, cracking a memory charm like a hazelnut.
The horse nipped at Magdalena. She hollered a curse and his mane singed briefly. Ghostly smoke smelled like cold water and metal.
In unison, the Sisters turned to Cormac.
When he was certain they were following him, he crossed the street and headed to the seclusion of the park, dropping charms as he went. Curse-breakers, dream-shields, lock-singers. He kept the charm for True Sight, slipping it into his pocket. If he was going to distract the Sisters long enough for the Order to arrive, he had to be able to see them.
He broke his strongest shield-charm last, leaving him vulnerable. He knew it would be irresistible to the Sisters. It was the most powerful magic he carried on his person; it had taken three witches three long nights to forge it.
And he just had to distract them a little longer.
Long enough to survive.
And hopefully not get his own sisters killed.
Chapter 7
“Gretchen, your gown! It’s positively ruined!”
Gretchen smiled brightly as she dropped onto a gold velvet chair. She was covered in soot and mud, and the ribbons on her dress had dye running all over the skirts. It blended to a virulent shade of purple where it met the pink smears left behind by Lady Pickford’s ridiculous dog. She was rather proud of the effect. It looked a little like a sunset over the moors. “Best. Ball. Ever.”
“Up, you savage!” Her mother very nearly shrieked, despite her daily assertions that ladies only spoke in pleasant whispers. A talent, it need not be said, that Gretchen did not possess. “You’ll stain the fabric and I’ve just had that chair delivered.”
Gretchen’s father frowned at her over the rim of his scotch glass. The amber liquid glowed like honey in the firelight. “Darling, you might inquire as to her well-being. She’s more feral looking than usual.”
“Tut,” Lady Cora Wyndham replied shortly as Gretchen abandoned her seat. It was uncomfortable anyway. Her mother had a tendency to purchase fashionable furniture without a single thought to comfort. “I can see very well that she is perfectly fine.”
Gretchen refrained from comment, mostly because Godric burst into the drawing room, dragging in the scents of evening: rain, wine, and candles. “So it’s true then,” he said, sparing Gretchen a glance as he strode to the sideboard. He poured too much whiskey into a crystal tumbler and it sloshed at the rim. “There really was a fire at the Pickfords’ ball?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Yes.” She beamed at him. “And an earthquake. It was all very exciting.”
“And did you set the fire?” Godric teased, knowing her all too well.
She grinned back. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of it.”
Lady Wyndham made a sound in the back of her throat which she reserved entirely for her children—like a wet cat in winter. She would never deign to show anything but cool politeness in public. It was sometimes difficult to believe that she was sister to both Emma’s mad mother and Penelope’s wildly unconventional mother. “Did you pay our respects to the Pickfords?”
Gretchen paused. “Yes?”
“That’s hardly convincing,” Godric scolded her, laughing. “Try again.”
“Whatever did I do to deserve such an uncouth daughter?” Lady Wyndham sighed.
“I was a little busy, Maman. I was hauling buckets of water and rescuing pink dogs.”
“You hauled buckets?” her mother repeated, aghast. “Honestly, Gretchen. You do delight in vexing me.”
“I fancied myself rather heroic,” she returned, crossing her arms. “If it had been Godric you’d be fluttering about, full of ancestral pride.”
“Twins or not, you are not Godric,” Lady Wyndham pointed out crossly. “And now that you’ve had your come-out, recent as it may be, it’s time you started to behave accordingly.”
“Oh, Maman, honestly. It’s nearly three in the morning.”
“A lady is a lady, no matter the time,” she sniffed.
Gretchen opened her mouth to retort but her father shot her one of his famous haughty glances before offering his wife his arm. “Let us retire. You know how quarreling is bad for the complexion. You might get wrinkles.”
Lady Wyndham practically galloped from the room. Gretchen and Godric exchanged a speaking glance before breaking into laughter when their parents were safely out of earshot. Gretchen snatched the glass from her brother’s hand to steal a sip.
“I hardly think that’s what mother meant by proper behavior,” he chuckled as she went cross eyed.
“That is horrid,” she sputtered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her throat was on fire. “Why on earth would you drink that on purpose?”
“Serves you right. Ladies don’t drink whiskey.”
“Don’t you start.” She took another sip just to prove a point, as her brother knew full well she would. The taste didn’t improve the second time around. She did feel a pleasant sort of warmth in her chest though, which took some of the sting away. “Why are you home anyway?” she asked, slumping back into a chair. The fire had turned to coal in the grate, glowing like red eyes. “I thought you were determined to keep to your bachelor apartments with the other lads.” She was dreadfully jealous. She longed to live away from her mother’s constant and unbearable speeches about proper behavior and proper manners and proper properness.
“I just came to fetch my old silver pocket watch,” he replied, making a face. His blond hair tumbled into his eyes, scarcely shorter than her own. She approved of the new fashion of cropped hair for girls, it felt positively freeing not to have her head scratched by pins and weighed down with pearl brooches. “I lost it to Edward in a wager last night and he’s already asking after it.”
“I don’t know why you insist on playing at cards,” she said affectionately. “You’re terrible at it.”
“I suppose I am,” he admitted amiably. “Horse racing, now that’s a different matter.”
“I haven’t forgotten you said you’d take me—” she broke off when he froze, blinking rapidly. “Are you going to cast up your accounts?” she asked. “Mother will kill you if you’re sick on her carpets, exalted heir or not.”
Godric just shook his head, color draining from his cheeks.
“You’re white as paste.” Gretchen frowned, rising slowly and looking over her shoulder. She half expected to see her mother with another lecture on deportment. Instead, there was only the sofa, several potted ferns, and a table glittering with crystal bowls filled with sweets. The housekeeper had an occult sense as to when Godric might be stopping by, and she always kept his favorite candies on hand.
Godric swallowed. “Bollocks,” he muttered.
“There’s nothing there.” She tilted her head. “How much of that vile drink have you had?”
“Just a sip,” he replied hoarsely. “Don’t you see her?”
“Who?” Gretchen reached out to touch her brother’s sleeve. “I think you should stick to wine,” she added, grinning.
But the moment her fingers pressed into his arm, Gretchen’s smile died.
The sound of roaring wind and water was in her ears, making her feel as if she’d fallen into the Thames. Shivers raced up and down her arms. Her fingers tightened on Godric’s sleeve. He stepped closer to her, mouth working but no sounds emerging. Gretchen felt the same way: stupefied and stunned speechless. Because she could see the girl now.
The very dead girl.
The sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.
But the girl remained. She was dressed for a ballroom, in white silk with a ribbon tied under her breasts. Her hair fell in disheveled curls and there was blood on her neck and down her arms. The rest of her was winter: the white of snow, the dark of bare branches, the indigo of storm clouds. The painting of some ancient Wyndham ancestor wearing a ridiculous ruf
fle was perfectly visible through her body. A star-nosed mole with red-tipped fur raced around her feet.
“Margaret York,” Gretchen said, stunned. “But you were only hurt a little …” She stepped away from her brother, her eyes still so wide they were uncomfortably dry. When her hand fell away from his sleeve, Margaret’s ghost vanished.
Swallowing, Gretchen raised her fingers again, slowly. The moment she touched her brother, Margaret reappeared. “That can’t be good,” Gretchen murmured.
Godric’s laugh was strangled. “I should think not.”
“No, I mean I can only see her when I touch you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Sweat popped on his forehead. He wiped it away, tousling his curls, which made him look younger. “If I’m not foxed, I must be mad.”
“Or you can see ghosts.”
He slid her a glance. “That is not an option.”
She tried to smile. “Well done. You sound just like Father.” “There’s no need to descend into insults,” he muttered. He lifted his chin, like a captain about to go down with the ship. “I don’t see her anymore,” he announced.
Gretchen heard a low buzzing, as if her ears were full of honeybees. She shook her head to clear it. “You’re lying,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” She paused. “I can hear it.”
He blinked at her before tossing back the remainder of his drink. He hissed as he swallowed and Gretchen now perfectly understood why men did that. She’d hiss too if she had to drink something that tasted like a peat bog. Ignoring him, she looked at Margaret. “What happened to you?”
“You’re talking to a ghost,” he said.
“Well, we won’t find anything out just standing here gaping,” she replied reasonably. Margaret didn’t so much as glance at Gretchen. “Can you talk to her?”
“How should I know? And why would I want to?”
“Godric, stop being such a goose.”
He snorted. “As soon as you stop acting as if this is perfectly normal.” He tensed when the girl took a step toward him. “Damn,” he whispered. He nudged Gretchen with his elbow. “I wish I had a normal sister.”
“You do not. Now, go on.”
He met the girl’s brown eyes, even though it turned the sweat to ice under his hair. There was something primal about talking to the dead. It was disconcerting in a way his bones objected to, turning cold and shivery. “Are you … dead?”
Gretchen was the one to reply. “Of course she’s dead, you tosspot.”
“They’re here,” Margaret said, only there was no sound. She mouthed the words.
“Who’s here?” Gretchen looked around wildly. When the mole suddenly darted at them violently, Gretchen yelped. Godric swore, stepping in front of her protectively. The little mole kept attacking them, his teeth surprisingly sharp. Blood dimpled Gretchen’s ankle. She made a dash for the fireplace, dragging Godric with her by the sleeve. He hunched over her, taking the brunt of the mole’s anger. Margaret just hovered under the chandelier, looking wispy and wretched.
Gretchen pulled the iron poker from the firewood basket, swinging it down so savagely, Godric nearly lost an eye. The curved pointed end of the poker sliced through the mole and it fell apart, like ashes and fire, dissipating into nothing. The girl followed, falling apart like burning paper. They left behind a cold draft and the faint smell of smoke.
And a single small paw print in the scattered ashes from the grate.
Panting, Gretchen lowered her makeshift weapon. “Is it gone?” she asked when Godric stepped away and she could see nothing but her mother’s favorite ceiling frieze, the one with urns of flowers and Roman ladies eating grapes.
“They’re both gone,” her brother replied. Without another word, he left the drawing room.
“Wait!” Gretchen chased after him down the empty corridor. He paused briefly on the threshold of the open front door. A carriage rumbled down the street behind his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?” He looked at her as if she was the mad one, seeing ghosts and rabid star-nosed moles. “To get very, very drunk.”
Chapter 8
“What the hell are you doing here?” Cormac snapped as three of his sisters swarmed around him. “Go home! Now!”
Colette, Georgiana, and Primrose just stared at him as if he were a curious specimen of beetle pinned to a corkboard. “Certainly not,” Georgiana said crisply. “We’ve come to save you.”
Cormac groaned. “Georgiana, you’re not a Keeper. You talk to birds.”
She narrowed her eyes at him behind her spectacles. A pigeon swooped down and yanked several hairs from his head. He grabbed at his stinging scalp with a muffled curse.
“You’re just embarrassed,” Colette pointed out, nodding with approval at her twin. “You don’t want the Order of Iron Arses to know your baby sisters saved you.” Reverence and refinement had escaped Colette’s character entirely. Even as a baby, she insisted on spitting up on every duke that came to the house. She’d have spat on the Order if she could. “They should be embarrassed. Since we got here first,” she added proudly. “And we’re girls.”
“I’m aware,” he said drily. He was also aware that the Greymalkins would burst through the tree line at any moment. He had to get his own sisters safely away from here. Easier said than done, clearly.
Colette frowned at the quiet lawns, inhaling the sweet perfume of roses. They hadn’t even bloomed yet, Colette just had that effect on plants. “What exactly are we saving you from?”
“Nothing,” he said, trying to sound convincing. He’d convinced Emma he cared nothing for her. He’d convinced the spirits of ancient warlocks that he was dangerous. He’d even once convinced a river-demon to swim away without his decapitated head in its teeth.
But he had yet to convince any of his sisters into doing any blessed thing they didn’t already want to do.
“How did you even find me?” he asked. “And please tell me Mother and Father aren’t on their way too.” If he was going to die, he’d rather not die mortified and coddled.
“They’re not back yet from that tedious dinner party,” Primrose assured him. “But Talia woke up screaming,” she added quietly. They were all familiar with the sound of their baby sister’s screams. No amount of herbal teas or medicines helped. “She said you were in trouble and sent us here.”
“With this,” Colette added, holding up a very pink hair ribbon longer than her arm. It was stitched with tiny seed pearls along the edges. She shrugged at his questioning glance.
“She was adamant,” Primrose added.
Cormac took the delicate ribbon gingerly, shaking his head. “She probably just had a regular bad dream,” he insisted.
“She also said to tell the Order to shove their iron nail up their—”
“She did not,” Cormac sighed, interrupting Colette.
“Actually, she did this time,” Primrose said. “In a way. She said to tell you: Bottles break and knots undo but the only real binding is love that is true.”
“How very poetic.” Cormac frowned. “Now go home. As you can see, I’m perfectly safe.”
Primrose raised an eyebrow. “Cormac, you’re covered in frostbite and soot.”
“There was a fire in the Pickford ballroom,” he said impatiently, herding them toward the street. “Talia must have dreamed of it and panicked. You know how she feels about fire.”
“That doesn’t explain the frostbite—argh!”
Colette had just caught sight of the first Sister. Cormac swore viciously and with great feeling. There was no getting them away now. Colette already had a knife in her hand and a mad smile on her pretty face. Birds woke squawking in the treetops as Georgiana spun around to see what everyone was gawking at.
His plan had worked. Problem was, he was no longer protected.
And neither were his sisters.
“Primrose,” he snapped. Adrenaline sang through him, making the situa
tion clear as a bell jar. He didn’t have magic to rely on but he had the Order and their training. He hadn’t had the chance to grow complacent, not like regular witches. “Tobias Lawless is wounded two streets east of the gate. Help him. All of you.” Primrose had a particular talent for healing. Her interest in the Sisters evaporated. Even fear didn’t have a chance to sneak under her determination to save a life. She took off running in the opposite direction. “Go with her!” Cormac told the others. “You can’t leave her alone.”
“And we can’t leave you alone either!” Colette exclaimed. She met Georgiana’s eyes. Georgiana nodded and ran after Primrose, trailing agitated robins, sparrows, and pigeons. The hawks remained, screeching at the Sisters. “I’m staying with you,” Colette declared. “So save your breath, big brother.”
And then there was really no more time left to argue.
Cormac stepped in front of her and lifted the ribbon, feeling ridiculous.
The Sisters swarmed, shrieking. The trees shivered, either from the unearthly sound, or Colette’s reaction to it. A rain of acorns pelted them. The white horse glowed between the branches as it approached, neighing loudly. The ground trembled under its hooves.
“Where’s your shield-charm?” Colette asked in a small voice.
“Gone,” he said succinctly.
“Bollocks.”
He half laughed despite himself. “Stay behind me.” He shifted, blocking her although he knew it was futile.
“We might prefer witches,” Magdalena spat at Cormac. The jewels on her crossed girdle glistened and her skin was brighter, more moonlight than lavender. She’d fed deeply on Tobias, and on Cormac’s amulets. “But any life feeds us,” she added silkily. “And I think yours will be sweetest if you die screaming.”
Ice sheened the trees, the leaves, and individual blades of grass at their feet.
“Come on then,” he called out, stalking toward them. They were so accustomed to people fleeing from them, both uninitiated and witches alike, that they hesitated, confused. Lark began to weep without a sound, her tears the most corporeal part of her, as if they were all she was made of. Cormac smiled his most condescending, taunting smile, the one that had once caused Georgiana to order a bird to mess on his shoulder.
The Secret Witch Page 5
